Harry's Journal: Beginning to End
by Writer is Ninja
Summary: Harry writes in a journal? Who knew? His wife did and now she's making him publish it. Read Harry's story from beginning to end, his POV. AU since OotP.


I don't own the Harry Potter Universe, characters, etc. Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling. This will have spoilers for books 1-5 and probably 6 and 7 as well, when they come out. This is Harry telling his story. I'm probably going to mention child abuse. Don't flame me. If you don't like it don't read it. I don't own anything. I'm not making any money. I'm writing this because I want to.  
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I can still picture in my mind clear as crystal everything leading up to the time I received my Hogwarts letter. For my cousin Dudley's birthday he and his friend, Piers Polkiss, decided to go to the zoo. I had done odd things before, of course. Once in a while, when I got angry, (which was rarely ever) I would do some accidental magic. Anyway, it was then the trouble really -  
  
I should be starting this story even further back, shouldn't I? As everyone knows very well by now, when I was only a year old, Voldemort - stop flinching - attacked my family. Years later, now, I can recall that night. Today was Halloween, All Hallows Eve, Samhain; it was cold outside, as was usual in October. Mum was decorating the house, holding me in one arm. She hated it when she wasn't useful. The only things she really couldn't do were cook and sing. A roast was in the oven at the moment. Dad had put it in. He was a great chef. Just the smell of the food he cooked could leave someone's mouth watering.  
  
He was waiting for my godfather, Sirius Black, to show up with another friend. Sirius was supposed to check on Peter Pettigrew before the both of them came over. Peter's broom had been broken in an accident at the Ministry and he was supposedly horrible at apparating, so he would need another method of transportation. He got one. I would later learn, later on, that, when Sirius had shown up to check on Peter, there was no sign of any struggle whatsoever. I will get back to that part later, though, I suppose, so there's no sense telling you all now.  
  
The door banged open with a crash. My mum backed into the wall, clutching me tightly to her chest. My dad reacted instantly, screaming something along the lines of, "It's him! Take Harry and go!" or something of the sort. Without a second thought my mother rushed from the room and up the stairs. My dad fought to give us time to escape. In the meantime, my mum ran to the nursery. What was there that she could do?  
  
My mum fought bravely to protect me. She died to keep Voldemort from killing me. My mother sacrificed her life for me, when it came down to it. So had my dad, of course, but mum was the one to block the killing curse aimed for me. She had left a mark on me, I learned later, though this is not the type of mark you can see. The mark my mother left on me is love.  
  
Voldemort did not die that night. He was not human enough to die, I suppose. Instead he lived on as a spirit. He became more of a shadow creature than anything else. He lived on, hidden in deep in the forests of Albania, hoping that a faithful servant would come looking for him. None did. He was kept alive (I'm not sure whether or not that thing would be classified as alive or dead) by possessing animals. They didn't survive long.  
  
Ten years of sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs, quite a few bruises, and a constantly rumbling stomach later, I received my Hogwarts letter. Mind you, my relatives tried to stop me from getting my letter. Yes; Harry James Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, boy who defeated the Dark Lord, had a horrible secret. I was being abused. Of course, that's the way I grew up. I never knew that there was anything wrong with getting the shit beat out of me, only that it hurt. When I made friends at Hogwarts I would learn that parents just didn't do that type of thing.  
  
'Course, I had always known that it was unfair that I was hit for things I didn't do (and things I didn't know I'd done - i.e. Accidental magic). Then again, years of having it drilled into you that you're worthless and stupid does have some effect on the brain. So I still thought I deserved that type of treatment.  
  
When I started at Hogwarts the beatings stopped. My relatives were afraid of the wizarding world, which is the only reason they didn't pitch me into a river the moment they found me on their doorstep. I must say, though, that they were sorely tempted to leave me at an orphanage. The only way I was ever able to call my relatives house a home was sarcastically.  
  
Hogwarts became like a home to me. I would spend the holidays there. I would have stayed for summer holidays too, except for Albus denied me every time I asked. He didn't know what went on at my relatives house. He did know, however, that I was safe from outside sources there. I was safe from one monster to be placed with another. I don't blame Albus for this. I never did. In fact, I think I blame myself all the more. It was my choice not to tell him about what went on at my relatives'.  
  
Albus Dumbledore is my mentor. He has been ever since I met him - again, I suppose - in my first year, ever since I saw him on my first Chocolate Frog card on the Hogwarts Express, ever since Hagrid defended him to my uncle when he came to retrieve me, ever since I was a baby. Sure I've been mad at him, but Albus has always been like a grandfather to me. I've always hated being hero-worshipped, being in the spotlight, and Albus understands what it's like.  
  
Everyone always expects you to know what to do. They rely on you for everything and turn on you the second you make a mistake. I never asked to be famous, never asked for money. I've never really asked for much at all. All I ever asked for was a family. When I first boarded the Hogwarts Express I never expected to make friends, to have people jealous of me, to have people care about me, to have anyone to share with. I never expected anything , really, except perhaps for people to hate me - and I wasn't disappointed - and to be horrible at anything I tried.  
  
I had grown up believing that my parents had died in a car (Muggle transportation device) crash. When Hagrid (Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts, now Care of Magical Creatures Professor as well) came to get me on Albus's orders to go to Diagon Alley for the first time, I knew nothing at all about the wizarding world. I knew nothing about Hogwarts, my parents, or magic. In fact, the only reason I even knew my parents names was because I had found a Christmas card from them while cleaning the attic. My Aunt Petunia had a whole shoe box of letters and such from my mum. I didn't look through the rest of the box. It was none of my business what my mum had written to my aunt, after all.  
  
Still, I knew nothing a' tall about the magical world until Hagrid came to get me. That was when I first found out what a Muggle was. Turns out, the Dursleys (my relatives) knew I was a wizard all along. Aunt Petunia said something about my mother being a freak and that they knew I'd be just the same. "And then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!" were her next words.  
  
Both Hagrid and I were outraged. I didn't know my own story, how my parents had really died. So I had Hagrid sit down and tell me my story. That's a bit odd, isn't it? Someone having to tell me about my own life, I mean. But that's what happened. I think I'll leave off here for now. I can always say more later, after all.  
  
~Harry~ 


End file.
